Wings of Wrath (9 page)

“Please have a seat,” he said at last.

Colivar did so, guessing at the chair his host favored and, in a rare show of graciousness, choosing another. “You go without a patron these days, I hear.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I am simply discreet about my business.” Again he smiled, ever so briefly. “It is not a quality I expect you to understand.”

The windows were cloaked in heavy curtains, Colivar noted, shutting out the sun. A single amber lamp struggled in vain to illuminate the gloomy chamber. Either Ramirus had absorbed too much of Danton's aesthetic while he worked for the man, or he wished to protect the contents of the room from the damaging effects of sunlight. Which implied that the scrolls and tablets surrounding them were ancient, and probably quite valuable. If so, it was an impressive collection.

“So,” Ramirus said, sitting down opposite Colivar in a leather-bound chair that creaked beneath his weight. “What brings you to my domain? Besides a desire for social pleasantries, of course.”

He was smooth, Colivar thought. So smooth. You could never get past that smoothness to read what was in his heart, not unless he wanted you to. That was what made the game so interesting with him.

“I was curious as to whether you would be attending Salvator's coronation.”

A muscle along the Magister's jaw tensed slightly. “I have not yet decided.”

“I hear it's going to be quite the spectacle.”

Ramirus shrugged. “I tire of Aurelius spectacles.”

The shrug was too casual, the tone too dispassionate.
You are still involved with that family,
Colivar observed.
That is interesting
.

“If that is all you came to learn,” Ramirus continued, “you could have sent a letter. The answer would have been the same and the delivery would have cost you considerably less.”

“Perhaps I enjoy your company.”

“Of course,” Ramirus said pleasantly. “And perhaps tomorrow the sun will rise in the west.”

Now it was Colivar who smiled. “I could make it so, if it pleased my host.”

“Indeed. I would not put it past you to try. Though I imagine even your formidable power has its limits.” Ramirus dismissed the thought with a sharp wave of one hand. “You came here to talk to me, Colivar, so speak your mind. I have little taste for pointless pleasantries these days. And be forewarned, if I find your query is not worth my time I may yet charge you for your damages to my estate.”

Colivar leaned back in his chair. It was a posture designed to look casual, collegial, but the intensity of his gaze rendered it something quite different, and he knew that Ramirus would recognize it for what it was: the stillness of a predator. “You recall the day the Souleater appeared, yes? Outside Danton's palace?”

Ramirus nodded; one corner of his mouth twitched slightly. “Hard to forget.”

Stained glass wings filtering the sun, knife-edged whip-tail slicing through air and flesh with equal ease, agonizing beauty wrapping itself around a man's soul . . .
Colivar shook off the memory with effort. “As I recall, your arrival at the site with a Guardian by your side was rather . . . serendipitous. Rather incredibly so, to be frank. I find myself . . . curious.”

One white eyebrow arched upward. “Do you really expect me to answer that?”

“It never hurts to ask.”

“Knowledge has its price, Colivar.”

“I did not say I expected it to be free.”

Ramirus steepled his fingers thoughtfully. Dust motes stirred in a thin beam of light beside him. At last he said, “The hawk. The one that fought the Souleater outside Danton's palace. What happened to it?”

He shrugged. “I don't know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Think what you like. It fell in battle and was gone by the time I went looking for it. I know no more of its destiny than you do.”

“And its true identity?”

“A witch, apparently. I have only guesswork on that count, the same as anyone. But it seems the likely answer.”

Ramirus nodded. “Then here is the answer to your own question. Fadir came to me and asked for help in manipulating Danton. I realized that the only person capable of that—if anyone was—was his wife, the High Queen Gwynofar. And she . . .” His expression darkened slightly. “Let us say she had good reason not to approach her husband at the time. So I sought out the one person she trusted most, her half-brother Rhys, and transported him to the High King's estate to meet with her, arriving what I hoped was far enough from the palace that Kostas would not sense my presence there. Where the battle you cited was already engaged. So you see, Colivar, no strange coincidence there, simply two roads leading off from a single point that converged a short while later of their own accord. The ‘serendipity' of timing simply betrays their common source.”

For a long time there was silence as Colivar considered the parameters of their exchange. At last he said, “The hawk was a woman. Whether she was witch or Magister I am unsure—obviously the latter is highly unlikely—but she was an accomplished shape-shifter, as you saw.” He hoped that would be enough to satisfy Ramirus. Clearly it was not. The cool blue eyes were merciless. For several long minutes Colivar studied him, trying to gauge just how much he would have to offer the man and just how much the information he got in return would be worth. His opponent waited patiently, the faintest flicker of a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. Win or lose, he clearly enjoyed the game.

Finally Colivar said, “I believe she was the one responsible for Prince Andovan's illness. As well as the death of that idiot Magister in Gansang—Raven, or Flamingo, or whatever his name was.” Ramirus' expression remained stonelike, impassive, but Colivar thought he saw a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “And then she was gone, before I could test those suspicions. I have not seen her since.”

“The others all think that Raven's killer is dead.”

“Yes,” Colivar agreed. “I was the only one who knew the truth. Until now.”

Ramirus nodded slowly, digesting his offering. As the Magisters measured such things, it was considerable. Finally, his lips set in a tight line, he nodded. “Rhys already knew of Danton's decline, and of the queen's precarious situation. When I asked him for help he told me there was nothing he could do. He said that no words existed that could convince Gwynofar to confront her husband in the manner I desired, and besides, he loved her too much to cause her that kind of pain.

“Those seemed weak excuses to me at the time, but sorcery granted me insight. Apparently Rhys knew what Danton had done to his half-sister. He was afraid that if he went back there again he would lose himself to rage and do something truly terrible to the High King . . . something Gwynofar would suffer for, even more than she was suffering then.

“I was trying to think of some argument that might change his mind when, all of a sudden, he stiffened in his saddle. For a moment his eyes lost their focus and his body shook as if from some sort of seizure. As I was summoning the power to counter it, the fit passed as suddenly as it had come.

“Rhys looked at me as if he had seen a ghost. His eyes, which moments ago had been clear and bright, were now bloodshot and stricken.

“ ‘The monster is here . . . I saw it . . . through her eyes . . .' He stared at me in horror. ‘A Souleater.'

“I did not know at the time that such a creature had returned to the world, you understand, so I imagined that some dark vision had possessed him. But the distinction hardly mattered. He was convinced that the High Queen was in great danger and he begged me take him to her immediately. Which I did. The rest you know.”

Colivar drew in a sharp breath. “Witchery?”

Ramirus shook his head. “What I saw that day was not simple witchery. Nor do I believe that Gwynofar consciously chose to send a message to her brother—and he very clearly did not expect to receive one.” He folded his fingers one by one as he spoke. “It is said the gods of the north once promised that if the Souleaters ever returned, the Protectors would awaken to some special power. I believe that is what I saw happening. I believe that in her moment of need, Gwynofar Aurelius tapped into some ancient formula whose name we do not even know, and used it to call Rhys to her. Clearly there is some kind of metaphysical connection between them. It may be a connection she shares only with him, or with her family, or even with all of her bloodline. There is no way to tell at this point. Rhys apparently no longer remembers his vision, and Gwynofar was never aware of sending it. Whatever power the gods once hid deep within their blood, it has returned to hiding once more. Not all my sorcery could pry it out afterward.”

Colivar's expression was grim. “If it is as you say, it is an ominous sign.”

Ramirus nodded. “Yes. It is that.”

“If the Souleaters are returning—”

“The northern gods seem to think they are, if ancient legends are to be believed. If not, then some new sort of power has come into the world. Either way things will be . . . interesting.”

Colivar's mouth twitched. “That is a bit of an understatement.”

Ramirus shrugged. “What are we but spectators? The centuries pass slowly. Mysteries have value. The world changed slowly once, and now it quickens its pace. Only the morati need fear such things.”

“Perhaps,” Colivar said quietly. “But do not forget what the Souleaters once did to this world. There are parts of that tale which even a Magister should fear.”

Ramirus leaned forward; his voice, now a whisper, was strangely fierce. “And do
you
remember those times, Colivar? Not as other men do, who learn of such things from minstrel tales and dusty tomes, but perhaps from knowledge of a more . . . personal nature?”

Colivar drew in a sharp breath. “No Magister existed during the First Age of Kings. You know that as well as I do, Ramirus. The last Souleaters disappeared long before the first of our kind entered the world.”

“Indeed. Yet some say you know more than any man alive about the creatures. More than a living man should be able to know. Why is that?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps I am simply old enough to have lived in a time when men remembered more.”

“And perhaps I am sharp-witted enough to know that for—what was that charming phrase you once used?—
camel dung
.”

“So what, then?” Colivar's eyes narrowed. “Am I not really a Magister, but something that existed prior to the Great War? Is that what you are implying?” Dramatically he spread his arms wide, as if in invitation. “Test me, then. Taste the sorcery that binds me to my consort. Know for yourself the truth of what I am.”

Mad though the offer was, for a brief moment Colivar thought Ramirus might just take him up on it. Certainly there was a fire that sparked in the white-haired Magister's eyes at the suggestion. If Colivar was truly opening himself up for inspection, might there not be some way to take advantage of that, without getting sucked into a consort's bond and devoured in the process? It was a tempting prospect, and Colivar felt a rare thrill as he braced himself for possible assault. It was rare that two Magisters of their age and power tested themselves against each other directly, and anything rare was an experience to be savored . . . even if it was not without its dangers.

But then the moment passed. “I know what you are from the taste of your sorcery,” Ramirus assured him. “Or did you think all those obstacles outside were just for my amusement? Your power is as cold as a demon's prick.”

Colivar chuckled. “Now you flatter me.”

“Hardly.” Ramirus leaned back in his chair once more. “The day is coming when we may well need to cooperate with one another.
All
of us, Colivar. Else the world may fall to these creatures once more.”

“Then the world is doomed,” he responded. “For I cannot imagine Magisters making the kind of sacrifice that would be required to save it.”

“Perhaps sacrifice would not be necessary this time. Perhaps if we knew our history better, a better way might be found.”

Chuckling softly, Colivar stood. “You do not yet have the coinage to buy all my secrets, Ramirus. Though I am flattered by your interest.” He nodded respectfully as he stood. “Now if you will excuse me, I have a variety of preparations to make before Salvator claims his crown. So much to do.” He smiled. “You understand, of course.”

Ramirus stood to see him out, and took it upon himself to walk him back to the front door of the manor. An uncharacteristically respectful gesture. The exchange of information sometimes brought that out in him.

“You really should come to Salvator's coronation,” Colivar said along the way. “It may well prove the largest gathering of our kind since the night of Andovan's suicide.”
You do remember that, don't you? The night Danton humiliated you in front of all of us?
“Already there are wagers being placed among the Magisters as to which enemy will strike him down the moment the crown is placed upon his head. And to think, it would only take a handful of words to keep it from happening—nothing more than the name of a Magister to sponsor him—but that is the Aurelius pride in action. Or perhaps it is Penitent pride to blame. Such a distasteful religion.” He shook his head. “Foolish morati, all of them. My money is on Corialanus, by the way. And death for Salvator within twenty-four hours of the moment that he first puts the crown upon his head.” He bowed his head slightly. “Please accept the information as a courtesy.”

“You are most gracious.” Ramirus' expression was impassive—unreadable—but his tone was dry. “And I shall consider your advice for what it is worth.” He waved his hand toward the door and it began to open. “In the meantime, try not to destroy too much of my property on the way out, will you? I should hate to have to send you a bill for it.”